You didn’t mean to say it out loud.

But the words slipped out anyway — soft, exhausted, maybe even a little bitter:

“I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”

You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, fingers pinching at soft skin, at stretched-out places that didn’t feel like you. Wearing one of Chan’s oversized shirts — because yours just didn’t fit the same anymore.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you quietly.

And then?

He stood.

Walked over.

Wrapped his arms around you from behind, gentle but firm, like he was trying to hold every broken piece of you together.

His voice was low. Steady.

“You made life, baby. Do you know how insane that is? You built a whole human. From scratch. And now you’re mad at yourself for not bouncing back fast enough?”

You didn’t answer.

He kissed your shoulder. Light. Reverent.

“You carried our baby for nine months. You didn’t break. You bent — and you survived.”

Tears welled before you could stop them.

Chan turned you around, cupped your cheeks, and looked at you like you were the most sacred thing he’d ever seen.

“I loved you before. I loved you during. And I love you now — more than ever. Do you understand that? I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

He pressed his forehead to yours.

“Not one damn thing.”